


Blue

by kindlystrawberry



Category: Rune Factory 4
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Backstory, Character Study, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Minor Original Character(s), Mutual Pining, Spoilers, colorblind soulmates, implied dylas/doug, implied margaret/forte
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27289027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindlystrawberry/pseuds/kindlystrawberry
Summary: “However, some people,” his mother continues, drawing Arthur out of his thoughts, “spend their entire lives without meeting their soulmate. And plenty marry just fine without needing to meet them, and without seeing in color. You shouldn’t worry about it.”
Relationships: Arthur/Frey (Rune Factory)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 36





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for a prompt idea from the RF writer's discord server, who are a totally awesome bunch!! And also a big thank you to [Topibeeru on twitter](https://twitter.com/topibeeru) for just, generally talking to me so much about asafure and keeping me excited about them as I write.
> 
> Honestly this spiraled totally out of my grasp, I genuinely *did not* think it would get this long but uhhh here we are. I just love asafure so much. Also uhhh the image of toddler Arthur lives in my head rent-free now, so there's that. Hope you guys like it, let me know!
> 
> And final thing! This fic, and this chapter specifically, are pretty spoiler-heavy for Arthur's marriage event/backstory, so proceed at your own caution.

Arthur D. Lawrence is five years old when he first hears the term “soulmates.”

He traces his fingers over each largely-printed word that he reads from the book in his lap, willing his mouth to form the sounds, to read out calmly and correctly to his mother, who sits in a chair a few meters away. He thinks maybe if he reads better, if he gets through the passage without error, she’ll move her seat closer. Maybe she’ll praise him, if he makes no mistakes.

His finger lingers over that word, though, tracing its curves like he might understand it simply by touching it, S-O-U-L-M-A-T-E-S, and his throat catches around the sounds; he doesn’t think he pronounced it right, because he sees his mother tense from her chair. 

“Did I say it right, Mother?”

“‘Did I say it correctly,’” she corrects. He’s about to apologize when she adds, “But yes, you did.” 

Arthur nods and looks back down at the book in his hand. There’s an image on the next page, one that he can’t really make out. He should keep reading, he knows his mother expects him to, but he’s stuck on the word. 

“What does that word mean, Mother? ‘Soulmates.’”

He hears her sigh as she takes off her glasses. She wears them less and less lately, though he doesn’t understand why. From what he’s been told, people who wear glasses need them to see. Does she not need them for far away things? Is that why she won’t sit closer to him?

“It’s… essentially, a superstition, some magic beyond our control. A soulmate is supposedly the person you’re destined to be with. Destined to ‘love.’ Everyone is born with one, and until one meets that person one can’t see colors.”

“‘Colors,’ what is that?”

She laughs slightly, and Arthur looks up, startled by the sound. Her face is covered by one delicate hand, though. “That one can’t be explained without experiencing it yourself, I’m afraid. It’s— in a way, it’s the way the world looks.” 

The way the world looks… Arthur glances back down at his book, at the page that’s filled with an image he can’t quite decipher. It looks like splotches arranged into a shape, what might be a tree. It’s in two colors— one light, one dark. 

_ Black and white,  _ a phrase he often hears. 

“However, some people,” his mother continues, drawing Arthur out of his thoughts, “spend their entire lives without meeting their soulmate. And plenty marry just fine without needing to meet them. You shouldn’t worry about it.”

“Can you see colors, Mother?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Is Father your soulmate?”  
“Of course.”

Oh! Arthur’s heart thrills at this. His parents are soulmates. They love each other. He’s not sure why he’s heard differently, around the palace, why the mother of his siblings seems to glare at his own mother. He’s also still not sure what “love” or “soulmates” mean in their entirety, either, and it makes him want to ask a thousand questions instead of continuing to read the book. He doesn’t, though, because he’s sure if he bothers her with too many his mother will leave the room, so he limits himself to just one.

“What color are my eyes?”

He hears an intake of breath that sounds like it dissolves into a chuckle. “What good will it do you, if you won’t even know what that color is?”

He can’t help the pout that slips over his lips. “I simply wanted to know.”

His mother is quiet for a very, very long moment— so long, that he doesn’t even think she’ll answer. She does, though. On a soft breath she says the word that Arthur will become fixated on from that point on— the word that he won’t be able to fully understand, not until he meets his soulmate, but that means something special to him anyway:

“Blue.”

* * *

He remembers only a few things about the cave-in, one year later: leaving the castle in a plump carriage, sitting next to his father and swinging his legs over the tall seat; traveling on an airship not for the first time, but always feeling thrilled just the same; his mother being more openly affectionate than she ever has been, this being the first and only time she ever tousles his hair; the name of the town, Selphia, which he likes to imagine is painted out in all kinds of colors that he can’t see yet; asking his parents what every color is around him, of that leaf and those doors and this brick, no, this particular brick right under his foot, and he remembers his parents laughing fondly, telling him he’s too curious for his own good.

What he wants to know most, though, is the color of the ocean, the color of the sky, the river, the forget-me-nots, because those are apparently blue, all blue, and he desperately wishes to know what that means.

But most of all Arthur remembers having both of his parents’ hands in his at the same time as they crossed the fields of Selphia. 

Their hands feel so,  _ so  _ warm, as if standing in between two soulmates creates that heat, and might let him enter their bond— as if he could feel the colors coursing between them. He can’t, of course, but he remembers hoping. 

He doesn’t remember the cave-in itself. Not really. There is noise and crashing and rocks falling, shouting, and something left unfinished. A carving? A superstition? He isn’t sure. He’s too young to be paying much attention. He only remembers staring at his foot and wondering if the bug crawling over his shoe is blue, if it could answer the question about his eyes, and the next second he feels something knocking the wind out of him, breaking the glasses he had just gotten a month ago.

Then his vision goes to black— one of the only colors he can see.

* * *

His mother moves away from the castle after that. She needs glasses, just like he has for some time, but she always forgets them. Arthur has adapted just fine to life in court, but she says it isn’t for someone like her. He doesn’t know what that means, but he’s starting to. The rumors about his mother drape over him like a cloak, overheard from the maids, the cooks, the mother of his siblings. 

He catches bits and pieces.

_ … lucky she’s his soulmate… _

_ … mistress…  _

_ … thinks she’s better because she can see color… _

_ … can’t even look at her child…. _

She also refuses to answer his questions about colors anymore, but even so he’ll never forget the word she told him once. Blue. Arthur’s eyes are blue.

When she does visit, which is rare, she mostly asks Arthur to read to her, and he dutifully picks up whichever book he’s gone over with his tutor that week. 

He’s never once mispronounced a word in her presence, and she’s never once moved her chair closer.

* * *

Arthur D. Lawrence is thirteen when he decides that soulmates aren’t important.

He’s also thirteen when he sees color for the first time.

If one were to look at the young prince’s desk at this time, they would see books littered all over it: half of them about soulmates— all the myths, speculations, and research about the phenomena— and the other about the color blue. Encyclopedias, art books, volumes of novels about the sea, all promising him this thing that he can’t yet see. These books are the only connection he has left to his mother, who three years ago had pressed her ice-cold hand to his cheek between the castle gate separating them, without wearing her glasses, and said one phrase that haunted him almost enough to get his mind off of the color blue:

_ People are not to be trusted. _

He never saw her again after that. Everyone around the castle said that she had vanished. Only his father wouldn’t say a word on the subject, and would only ever answer Arthur’s questions with “she loved you very much.”

Arthur learned to stop asking. 

He grew uncharacteristically impatient, the feeling itching under his skin, knowing that if he could just meet his soulmate they could show him the color of his eyes, and in that he’d see the secret to finding his mother.

This thought remains in the back of his mind as he studies, bows, dances, anything required of a prince. He is calm, he is polite, he is studious. He is starting to hate court life more and more, with its dishonesty and greed and underhandedness, but he never says this. At least his father is different than most of the nobles around him— at least his father actually cares about being a good king and serving his people. 

Arthur is walking through the castle city late at night when he meets them.

His appointment at the tailor’s had taken considerably longer than anyone had expected, but he doesn’t mind. He enjoys being around people beyond the castle walls, who are so much more open and interesting than those in court. They have so many kinds of jobs, so many new experiences, and so many answers to Arthur’s never-ending list of questions. 

“Come along now, please, Your Highness,” his attendant, Yuan, says, walking briskly as he looks nervously down at his pocket watch. 

Arthur can’t help but need to stifle a laugh behind his free hand. “I think you worry too much. I highly doubt Father will be so upset over something like this.”

“Your father really doesn’t want you out here at night, you know. He’ll allow it when you’re with me,” Yuan’s hand hovers by the sword at his hip, as if an attacker might jump from the kegs sitting by the tavern that they pass, “but I’m sure he’s worried regardless. It’s a good thing I sent that messenger earlier to let him know that damned tailor was taking forever…” Yuan mutters to himself like a mother hen scorned.

“Dirk is a good friend of my father, even if he is no longer the official court tailor,” Arthur says patiently, for all that Yuan seems to be sweating buckets. He’s only a few years older than Arthur, and yet he’s as much of a worrywart as the parents Arthur has observed.

“And will you please close that book, milord?” Yuan says, ignoring Arthur’s comment, though whether he allows himself to sound irritated because of the situation or because he has been attending Arthur for a while now is unknown to the young prince. “At least when you’re walking, so that you can see where you’re going? If you trip and break your glasses, or Gods forbid your nose, your father will have my head.”

Arthur’s about to laugh again, closing the book in his hand but not putting it away, when he sees a large crowd in front of them. 

“Ah, damn,” Yuan mutters, looking at the streets around them. He turns back to Arthur, sounding more polite, if only for the fact that he seems too tired to do anything else. “This is still by far the fastest way back to the castle, so please stay close behind me, Your Highness.”

Arthur does so as they weave their way through the crowd. Apparently there’s a celebration going on. By the bits and pieces Arthur manages to overhear from the waves of people around him, one of the popular fish restaurants just expanded over into the next building, and is celebrating with an entirely new menu. Arthur makes a mental note to come back here next time he is allowed to go into the city; his birthday had passed recently, but maybe he could find another reason for his father to allow him a day trip.

Hopefully Yuan likes seafood. 

Arthur goes back to his book as they weave their way through, though it’s difficult to read with the moon obscured. 

Soon they’re at the edge of the crowd. Yuan’s already broken through, waiting just a few meters from it for the prince to cross into the open. Arthur is about to when he feels someone stumble into him with enough force to knock his glasses off his face.

“Oh, apologies—”

“Ah, I’m so sor—”

Before either of them can finish their sentence a hand around Arthur’s wrist pulls him carefully into the open street, while the person who bumped into him is swallowed back up by the throngs of people. 

“Are you okay, Your Highness?”

“Yes, I am.” After a small flash of a smile Arthur’s already squatting down to find his glasses, relieved to see that they aren’t broken. 

They’re walking again when he takes the fabric of his tunic and uses it to wipe them clean. He looks up when he slips them back onto his face, the large presence of the castle towering over him as it always does. The shadows seem particularly dark tonight, like blotches of ink stained around the gates and high towers. 

Arthur is about to go back to reading with a sigh, quietly lamenting the return to stifling court life, when something in his book catches his eye. 

Is that—

On the traveler’s book’s page, next to a lengthy description about the Kardia region’s many types of flora and fauna, is a picture of a forest in a way Arthur has never seen before. 

He squints harder at the page, as if he’s hallucinating. But no— this is real. The closer they get to the castle the more torches there are to light the street, and the more clearly Arthur can see it.

The image of a forest, rendered dutifully by the painter who illustrated this book, in full color. 

_ This  _ is what color is. Arthur feels the breath leave his lungs all at once, and all the basics he has memorized come flying back to him, now putting substance behind the theory: green leaves, brown bark, birds with far more color on them than Arthur could ever imagine one thing possessing— but the landscape is dry, and the line of trees block out where the artist would have included a sky.

He feels dizzy, and nauseous, and suddenly he’s finally keeping up with Yuan’s pace as they hurry back to the castle. 

If Arthur was paying more attention he would notice Yuan’s surprised eyes on him.

For once he feels the urge to take off his glasses, because suddenly everything is overwhelming as they cross the threshold of the gates and courtyard. The fire looks so much warmer, that woman’s gown is very vibrant—and when they get to the king’s study, Arthur touches his own hair, wondering if it’s the color he now sees on his father’s.

Yuan and Arthur check in with his father, and Arthur offers his pleasantries and good night wishes as quickly as he possibly can without being rude. He’s sure he doesn’t quite succeed in this, because his father squints at him somewhat suspiciously when Arthur says goodbye, and he can just hear his father fondly mumble  _ “teenagers,” _ as Arthur shuts the door behind him.

_ Wait— that means— _

Belatedly, Arthur realizes as he contemplates the color of the carpet that winds down the long stretches of corridors to his bedroom that he must have met his soulmate today. But when would it have been? 

When had he noticed?

The book, it was the book. And before the book was that person, the one that knocked away his glasses. The one swallowed by the crowd before either of them could finish an apology.

He has half a mind to sneak out into the city today— something he has never actually gotten the courage to do before— and inspect every brick and corner until he finds that person again. He hadn’t even caught their face, or their clothes, or anything. Through the noise of people he hadn’t even been able to garner anything about their voice, other than it being slightly high-pitched.

Thoughts of his soulmate—  _ soulmate, _ the mere concept makes him dizzy all over again— occupy him until Arthur hastily bursts into his bedroom. For once acting without any decorum at all, the young prince all but launches himself at his desk, grabbing one of the books he has on color and practically tearing through the pages until he finds the part about the color blue.

Blue.

It comes in so many shades, apparently, pages and pages of shades, some light, some dark, some mixed with what looks to be other colors. Arthur doesn’t know enough yet, he’ll study it all later, but a sense of relief washes over him, a blanket over his heart. His mother. Blue. She’s gone but he has the color in his hand now, has the ability to see it, and he feels it wrap around him like an armor around the loneliness that life as nobility gives him.

Unable to help himself from letting his curiosity get the best of him, Arthur quickly sifts through the other colors. Green, red, purple— all so unique, each one has so many shades, some warm, some cold, some light and others dark, and he thinks that maybe his life won’t be so boring now, now that he has so much new content to study.

He realizes in that moment that his mother was right: it  _ is  _ impossible to describe without seeing them yourself. 

His mother.

The book is barely even closed by the time he’s already pushing open his bathroom door, stumbling over to brace his arm against the dark wooden countertop of his vanity. 

Arthur looks into the mirror, fully expecting to see the ocean, the sky, the forget-me-nots in his eyes, to finally know what those truly look like, wondering which shade he has, hoping it’s a mix of all of them.

And then he sees it.

Red. 

His eyes are red.

Arthur D. Lawrence is thirteen when he sees color for the first time.

He’s also thirteen when he decides that soulmates aren’t important.


	2. Chapter 2

She’s radiant.

Mint hair, mint eyes, and a kind smile, she shoots him a worried glance now and again but Frey takes everything Arthur throws at her with grace.

Of course, he doesn’t mean to overwhelm her, nor does he mean to be unkind by essentially shoving his duties onto her, but when fate (which despite himself he can’t help but believe in, at least partially) offers him the opportunity to step back from the life of royalty, he takes it. He’s been interested in trade for years, and has already become experienced in it despite the constraints afforded by the castle.

Now he’s in a different city, though, a different kingdom, and Selphia presents itself with a warm chef taking him in, an office to make his own, and an eclectic mix of people all greeting him with open arms. He no longer has to answer to the royal titles he never truly felt applied to him (Volkanon refuses to call him anything other than ‘Sir Arthur,’ but honestly the head butler has been accommodating enough with Arthur and Frey’s switch-around scheme that Arthur feels bad insisting him for anything further). Instead he can read, he can work, he can enjoy his office, and he can help Frey however he can.

She’s sitting on his couch today, reading up on the various things one can do with the appropriate licenses. Apparently she had found the book in the castle library, and had brought it over to ask Arthur to provide more context with his experiences. 

“So the airship license…” Frey says, eyes focused determinedly as she scans over the page. He wonders if she realizes that she’s biting her lip in concentration, the soft pink flesh going white under the force of her teeth. “Will let me pilot the airship anywhere?”

“Just about. There are specified docking stations for almost any city or area, though if one travels to another country they are expected to provide documentation as soon as they land.” Arthur finishes pouring his tea as he answers, Frey nodding along.

Her shoulders are pale crescents of skin between the long pigtails of her hair. Green, beige, pink, white, Arthur has never kicked the habit he developed at thirteen of internally labeling colors whenever he sees something. 

“Are you sure you don’t want any?” He asks in a friendly voice.

After marking her page, Frey sets her book down and slumps back against the maroon seat. Arthur can’t help laughing, just slightly, and the pout Frey gives him is ridiculously adorable.

Arthur has always had a fondness for cute things, but in the mere three weeks that he and Frey have known each other, have worked together to help her adjust to life as a princess, she has single-handedly gone through blowing everything else out of the water.

This is getting dangerous. For as kind as Frey has been, Arthur reminds himself of his mother’s words like the mantra they have been since that day all those years ago.

_People are not to be trusted._

“Actually, yes, I change my mind. If you don’t mind, I’d love some tea.”

Arthur’s halfway through pouring her cup when she speaks again, leaning forward to look at the blue and white china set more closely. “And it’s been ages since I’ve had green tea— Volkanon and Clorica usually make black.”

Arthur freezes but then quickly corrects himself, just barely managing to avoid overfilling her cup. 

As if noticing, Frey says, sounding slightly concerned, “Arthur?”

“Ah, my apologies.” He sets the pot down and pushes the saucer and cup of tea over to her side of the table. In an old habit of his, Arthur pushes the frame of his glasses up his nose. He had never said what kind of tea he brewed. “I never realized you have color sight.”

“Oh— yes, I do.” 

The unspoken question between them hangs heavily in the silence. 

Frey, proving time and time again already in their short time thus far in Selphia that she is far braver than Arthur, speaks first. Her tone is light, but the way her slender thumb traces over the cup’s handle hints at her nerves. “I’ve had it since I woke up in Vent— uh, Ventuswill’s chamber. I almost forgot soulmates were a thing that affected vision until a few days later when I commented on how beautiful a green her scales are, and she looked surprised.”

Ah.

“So that means, the person who is your soulmate is most likely someone you met before your amnesia.”

Frey hums out her agreement into another sip of tea.

Arthur, always too curious, doesn’t catch himself before he asks, “Doesn’t that bother you?” 

The wide, pale green of Frey’s eyes snap to him, and Arthur immediately blushes. “Ah— I’m very sorry, that was hardly an appropriate question. Please, forget I asked.”

“No, that’s okay,” she says, awkwardly but not unkindly. “It does bother me, in a way. But on the other hand, I can’t help but feel…”

Rather than overstep again, Arthur doesn’t say anything, instead quietly cocking his head to let her know that he’s still listening. Frey sighs and sets down her cup, and Arthur can’t help but marvel at how expressive she is. Every line of her face and every curve of her skin is guileless and open, inviting him to believe whatever she says.

_People are not to be trusted._

“Well,” Frey continues, “I can’t help but feel that if I’ve met my soulmate, that means that in my past life, I was important to at least one person. And that person has to remember me, right? So that means they’ll come find me. I guess, in a way, it gives me hope to hold on to, in regards to my memories. Probably.” 

“Probably,” Arthur echoes, and he hopes his smile is more kind than cynical. 

* * *

It’s almost a month later when she brings it up again. 

Arthur’s sitting at his desk, sorting through some paperwork, and Frey is glancing at the harvest report. She spends more and more time in his office lately, and he doesn’t mind it. Her presence— her bubbling laugh, her bright smile, the way her hair brushes over her lithe arms when she steps into his office and the late-summer breeze rushes through his door— is a distraction, but a welcome one. 

(Actually, nothing has ever been a welcome distraction to Arthur and his workaholic tendencies before, come to think of it. This is a strange feeling he keeps putting off to think about at another time).

Doug pushes open the door, “Hey, Arthur, Granny wants to know the harvest rep— oh. Hey, Frey.” 

Frey turns around with the document still in hand, smiling at Doug. “Hi! Do you want this?”

“Uh— yeah. Thanks.” 

Arthur can’t help but notice the tense line of Doug’s shoulders as he awkwardly takes the page from Frey, but he can’t pinpoint the reason. Frey, now without something to do, hovers over Arthur’s shoulder, and the next few minutes are spent exchanging pleasantries as Frey and Arthur talk about what she’s been doing lately. Apparently, there are a lot of new ores to be found around the Obsidian Mansion.

Arthur vaguely wonders if he can make that place a tourist attraction.

“Here you go,” Doug says, handing her back the document. His eyes fall over to the stack of papers on Arthur’s desk, and he whistles at the site. “Damn, when did you get so busy? You’ve been here like what, almost two months?” 

Arthur shrugs his shoulders jovially. “Work seems to follow me wherever I go. Or, more likely, I follow it.”

“Hah,” Doug scratches the back of his neck, his smile teasing and self-deprecating all at once. “You and I are _really_ different, man.”

They all chuckle at that, in good humor. 

Doug is about to leave when something occurs to Arthur. Maybe it’s how comfortable everyone seems to be in this town, or maybe it’s the rather un-princely habit Arthur has of wanting to tease people, just sometimes, but Arthur doesn’t stop himself from saying, in an innocent voice, “Ah, Doug. I can’t help but feel as though something is different about you.”

Blinking at Arthur like he’s grown a second head, Doug flusters instantly. Interesting. 

“Wh-what? Of course there isn’t— why would there be? I think you’ve been staying up too late or something.”

Frey, quick as a whip, seems to catch on. The harvest report is all but forgotten on his desk. “No, I definitely see what you mean, Arthur. Is it…”

They both stare at Doug in a long, pregnant silence. The dwarf, for his part, looks like he’s begging the Native Dragon Terrable to open up the ground beneath him and swallow him whole.

It occurs to Frey a second before it occurs to Arthur.

“Oh!” She says, a smile gliding onto her lips. “I know, it’s your clothes.”

Immediately, Arthur finds it difficult to keep his smile at an appropriate size. Doug seems to notice, because he’s glaring suspiciously between the two of them. 

“You’re right, of course,” the blonde chimes in. “Doug, it seems for the first time that your clothes match.”

“Wh— what’s that supposed to mean? You saying I dressed badly before?”

“Not badly, just— well, not matching,” Frey says. “Which is fine! That just means, you’ve met your _soulmate_ haven’t you?”

Doug balks, and Frey preens.

Arthur has seen quite a few sides of Frey already: confidence, joy, exhaustion, anxiety. At the moment, though, as she walks past his desk to stare more closely at Doug’s clothing ensemble, she’s radiating what can only be described as pure, teasing energy. He’d almost say the smile on her lips is _dastardly,_ if it wasn’t so easy to see the kind-intention in her eyes. 

Doug backs up anyway, acting as if he’s being prodded with a fireplace stoker. “Woah, hey now, Princess.”

Arthur’s laughing again, barely stifling the noise behind his hand, and that seems to catch both of their attentions— Frey’s shoulder’s visibly perk, clearly encouraged, and Doug shoots Arthur a betrayed look.

“I know you couldn’t see color recently, though,” Frey continues, “because you accidentally passed Amber vinegar instead of honey—”

_“Why would Porcoline put vinegar in a bee-shaped bottle—”_

“And the only person who’s gotten here since then is… Oh!”

Frey stops walking, and Arthur’s eyes widen as the same realization dawns on him. 

Doug, his expression doing a very realistic impression of a chipsqueek who’s just been caught stealing food, barely manages to get out a hasty _“Anywaynicetalkingtoyoubye!”_ before he’s out the door. 

Frey is left blinking at the door. She turns back to Arthur, and the two of them share a slightly confused look. Then the two of them burst out into a fit of laughter.

Both of them are trying and failing to stifle it against their hands, but it’s no use. Frey walks back and leans on Arthur’s desk to steady herself, half-wheezing as she says, “He barely even tried to defend himself. I mean, technically it could have been _any_ of the tourists who come to Selphia.”

Arthur manages to breathe just evenly enough to say, “Well, he seems to have come to the same conclusion as you did.”

She grins at him brightly, and the buzzed, quiet moment breaks again as they fall back into laughter. Arthur has to take off his glasses to clean them, and his sides hurt by the time the two of them calm down. The thought strikes him that he can’t ever remember laughing this much or this hard before he came to Selphia.

This town— or maybe Frey— make laughing so much easier than he had ever known.

Arthur clears his throat one last time, still mirroring Frey’s smile with a small one of his own as he organizes some of the documents on his desk. “Would you still like the harvest report?”

“Oh, no that’s okay. I finished looking at it.” 

With an easy nod he opens up one of the many cabinets in his office and files the report away accordingly. It’s after a few moments of sifting through the folders to make sure everything is in order that Arthur realizes that Frey’s eyes are still on him. He glances up, only to realize that they’re not on him, exactly, but on where his hand is still plunged into the cabinet. 

He’s about to ask her if anything is the matter when she speaks first.

“Is it— sorry, I’m going to ask a question and you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to, okay? I just realized, I never asked you where you met your soulmate— when mine came up. Um. Last time.” 

Ah, that’s right. He didn’t mention it. He rarely does. 

He knows he could easily avoid the conversation. Something about Frey’s earnest question, though, makes him not want to. Maybe it’s the fact that he believes her— if Arthur truly didn’t want to answer, she would let him off the hook without any further questions.

He takes his glasses off again and speaks while cleaning them.

“It’s rare that people ask many questions when they find out I have color vision, though I don’t particularly mind. I’d imagine it to be because of the importance people tend to put on soulmates, so when I clearly don’t have one in my life despite my vision, they tend to become… ah, I’d imagine too nervous, or perhaps too sympathetic to ask.”

When he glances up at Frey he’s not sure what he expects— pity, confusion. Instead he’s met with genuine empathy in those crystal eyes of hers. He’s reminded of the first time he properly saw an emerald, and admired it not for the wealth or status it ascribed to the person whose neck it hung around, but for the shifting gleams of its color. 

He laughs, a little warmly. “You don’t have to look sad for me, Princess. I never properly met my ‘soulmate’ to begin with, so I had no personal attachment to lose.”

It’s rare that he calls her by her title— he doesn’t particularly like titles anyway, but it seems to do its job in cheering her up. When he uses it for her it feels less of a signifier of station, and more like a reminder of that bond between them, the reason they’ve worked together for Selphia. Frey rarely needs his help anymore though, with how quickly she picked all of this up. 

“You never met yours?” She echoes.

He slips his glasses back onto his face— he almost forgot to do that, for once. He had gotten too caught up in the way shades of green, pink, beige, white, brown, blend together when his vision is blurry. 

“Not truly.” Arthur looks back to the things on his desk, voice at a calm neutral as he organizes a few random stacks. “I bumped into them in a busy street, which caused my glasses to fall off. By the time I had them back on, they had disappeared back into the crowd.”

After that night, when his red eyes had revealed to him the truth about his mother, Arthur had decided to close off the whole affair of soulmates, even if the disappearance of his mother— and the hate she had clearly felt for him— still haunts him. He’s done his best to ignore it, to pile work on top of it, though it can get difficult when his work reminds him so much of his mother. 

The reason he had made such an effort to travel as often as he could in the first place was— well, anyway.

“Oh.” Frey says, simply. 

Arthur looks up at her, not expecting that response, somehow. Her eyebrows are drawn, and her gaze unfocused. The blonde finds himself standing, hand hovering near her in a sudden bout of concern. “Are you okay?” 

She blinks back at him a few times before her eyes focus on him, and smiles with those pale pink lips. “Ah— yes, my bad. I think I accidentally skipped breakfast today?”

This time Arthur’s responding smile is slightly wry, as he retracts his hand to scratch at his cheek. “Mm, I certainly understand how that happens.”

Frey seems to consider something. “Do you… want to eat with me?” 

Arthur pauses. 

“That depends, are you only asking me because Meg and Porco have complained about my habits?” Arthur can’t help the teasing that slips into his tone. Frey generally makes him feel far more comfortable than he probably should. It’s such an odd comparison to how he felt in the palace, in court, always judged by every person around him for every one ofh is actions.

She laughs at that, the noise warm like sunlight shining down on cobblestone roads. 

“That’s not the _only_ reason, but I won’t pretend they haven’t told me that they’re worried about you.”

“Ah, well, I suppose I’m honored.”

Frey rolls her eyes fondly as they walk together.

* * *

Ever since he became able to see color, autumn has been Arthur’s favorite season.

He hasn’t known until that first time he could fully see how the leaves started changing that there were _so many_ colors in them— he had always read that leaves were green, and then they were brown. But he has never read about the in between, the vibrant reds and oranges, the yellows in between the specks of green that still hold on to summer, as if stubborn against their own transient nature.

Selphia, in particular, lets him appreciate this beauty to its fullest. Every street and neighborhood is decadent with trees and bushes, as if the vivacity of the town’s inhabitants weren’t enough so it had to seep into the scenery too.

And then there’s winter. 

The thing no one ever talk about in regards to soulmates is that black and grey and white are all beautiful too.

To see clumps of snow drift by his window, blanketing the world in a soft, radiant white is something that brings Arthur immense joy, especially as he gets older and learns to appreciate the smaller things in life.

For example, how nice a sunny day is, his first winter in Selphia. 

He finds himself spending less and less time in his office— still working just as much, but taking his documents to read over outside, or affording himself a few more breaks to stretch his legs and take in the season.

He also likes to conduct research— he learns to order warmer clothes for Blossom, to keep up her health in the cold, and warmer, well, _everything_ for Amber, who apparently hates this weather. He can’t relate to the sentiment, but he can put in a few more trade deals to sell warm blankets and coats to tourists, as well as regular citizens.

Today’s a day he is spending outside, but not particularly working. 

The bench that he sits on presses into the thick fabric of his coat, but he pays it no mind as he eats a delicious salmon onigiri for lunch. 

After swallowing his bite he says, to Frey who eats cheerily next to him, “Thank you again for making these. They’re absolutely delicious.”

Frey practically shines at the praise, even as she manages to look bashful. The look on her face— with the sweet pink of her blush only made more noticeable by the lack of color in the scenery around them— is beautiful. 

Arthur catches himself thinking this more and more lately. He tells himself it’s the appreciation for colors— that he finds plenty of things aesthetically pleasing. He tells himself that Frey is naturally beautiful, it isn’t strange for him to notice that.

“I’m so glad you like them. It’s actually only my second time making them, so I’m glad they came out well.”

“You’re very naturally talented at this.”

She giggles. “Maybe I was a chef in my past life. I should ask Porco if he’s heard of any restaurants losing their staff to amnesia.” 

“I imagine seeing color is useful for cooking. It’s at least useful for appreciating the food.” He takes another bite, glancing at Frey out of the corner of his eye. She hums thoughtfully.

“You know— it’s strange.” Her eyes go slightly distant as she stares at the scenery of Melody Street, and he wonders if they focus on similar things: on people scattered around the streets, warm light coming in through the windows, and the way the layers of snow wash it all out to a soft, kind haze.

Arthur realizes he’s staring, and goes back to eating. 

Frey continues, breaking the momentary silence of her contemplation, “I can’t actually remember a life without color— that’s basically the opposite of how most people live, isn’t it?”

For once, Arthur’s not sure what to say. “I suppose it is. My life certainly changed when I first started seeing in color.”

_For better or for worse._

She nods as if she had expected this. “Does it mean that I can’t fully appreciate colors? If I don’t know what it’s like not to see them?” 

The silence that stretches out between them as Arthur thinks over her words is a comfortable one. Neither of them are in a hurry, as they sit so close together on the small bench that their shoulders _almost_ touch, and as they enjoy the scenery.

At length, he says, “They say that one cannot see shadow without light. The opposite is also true, naturally. But I think…” 

The words of Arthur’s mother come back to him unbidden. _What good will it do you, if you won’t even know what that color is?_

“When you look out at this,” Arthur gestures vaguely at the street before them, “what do you see?”

“What do I… see?” At his nod, Frey takes a moment to think over it. Her calm, soothing voice is genuine in its contemplation. “I see tourists. I see buildings. I see homes in those buildings, and families within them. And… they all seem more vibrant, I guess, because of how pale the snow and bare trees are.” 

She glances over at Arthur, smiling, and the blonde realizes he had already been smiling back. 

“While I… haven’t gone through your experiences,” Arthur says, “I believe color is one of those things that is beautiful, in and of itself. One doesn’t need to have lived without it to enjoy living with it. Color can simply be appreciated, just as it is.” 

“Just as it is…” Frey echoes, voice slightly hushed as if the words are meaningful.

He wants to ask her if she still hopes her soulmate will come find her, and recover her lost memories. He wonders if she remembers telling him that. They both stare out quietly at the scenery. 

* * *

When Frey goes to the Forest of Beginnings, Arthur dreams in black and white. It’s the first time he’s done so since he was thirteen. He doesn’t think anything of this; he assumes it’s out of stress. He almost forgets the dream, anyway, since he barely sleeps at all that night, too filled with worry. He is the reason Frey assumed the title of Selphian princess. If she gets hurt doing something as a princess, it’s his responsibility, his fault. 

Lady Ventuswill is seen flying over the sky the next day, brilliant green scales shining under the brilliant sun. And as she’s landing in her castle, Arthur can just make out a set of pigtails on her back— also green, but much paler. For the first time, something outshines the blue of the sky. 

The enormity of his relief is palpable. 

He doesn’t dream in black and white again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait and finish the fic before I posted it to have it done all at once, but I think I'll post it at this sort of halfway (a bit more, maybe) mark. If anyone's curious, [this song by frank sinatra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y_t2gNCXYbY&ab_channel=FrankSinatra-Topic) gives me vibes of this fic in general-- not perfect vibes, but close. Also I just love that song.

Arthur works a lot— he has a lot to do. Yes, this worries those around him, particularly those who care for him, and though that isn’t his intention, he considers himself lucky to have people close enough to him to worry.

But he doesn’t think that he’s _particularly_ terrible at taking care of himself.

That’s why when Arthur feels a cold start to come on one late Monday evening, he decides to do as he always does and work through it, despite those at the restaurant advising him otherwise. Then, one moment on Thursday of that week, Arthur’s briefly discussing something with Vishnal in his office when he wonders to himself why there’s suddenly three of the blue-haired butler. The next thing he knows he’s waking up in the clinic.

“Ah—“ is all Arthur manages to say before his throat closes up in a rasp. 

He hears a soft noise, the sound of the tap running, and the next thing he knows someone is by his side, craning his neck up.

“Here, sweetie, drink this.” Her touch is kind and cool against Arthur’s feverishly warm skin. She puts a glass to his lips and lets him drink. “There you go. How do you feel?”

Blinking up against the harsh ceiling light above them, all Arthur can make out is that she has long blonde hair tied back, and soft blue eyes. 

Blue eyes.

“Mother?”

He hears a light, sweet laugh like wind chimes, far too forthcoming to be anywhere near the ‘laugh’ he could vaguely remember from his childhood.

“You know, surprisingly, it’s not often I get mistaken for someone’s mother,” Nancy says, with her easy affection.

Arthur starts to sit up, and Nancy is quick to put a reassuring hand behind him as she rearranges his pillows. He reaches over to the small table where his glasses are sitting and puts them on. When his vision finally clears enough he can clearly make out the clinic around him, and the town nurse smiling at his bedside. 

“Ah, forgive me. For a moment I— I don’t know what I was thinking.” Arthur raises a hand to his temple to try and soothe down his headache. His thoughts feel like they’re being pressed between walls of cotton.

“No, it’s alright, it’s actually rather sweet. And I think it makes some sense— you and I both have blonde hair! Does your mother, too?” 

Arthur finds himself glancing down in thought at where his hands are folded over the bed sheets. “I’m not sure, actually. I never saw her after I received my color vision.” 

“Oh, I see.” 

Arthur’s head hurts too much still to make out the expression on Nancy’s face, though he can see that it quickly turns back into a soft smile. She efficiently goes through explaining to him that he was brought in with a high fever. It should break by tomorrow with the way his medicine is going, but apparently it was made considerably worse by the lack of water and nutrition in his system. 

After a strange mix of scolding and reassurance, Nancy gets up and says, “You’ve also had plenty of visitors today while you were out— I’m sure someone is still there. Should I let them in, or send them away for now?”

Arthur takes a moment to assess his own situation. His muscles feel heavy and he’s still sticky with sweat, but regardless he feels ready for conversation; he also genuinely feels bad for worrying people today, like he has been all week. 

“They can come in. Thank you.”

“Sure thing.” Nancy refills his glass of water and then walks upstairs, where Arthur imagines someone has been kept waiting.

A minute later he hears hurried footsteps, and then Frey is pulling up a chair at his bedside. He still doesn’t have the energy to fully parse her expression, but it seems like a strange mix of what looks like relief and annoyance.

“Hello, Frey.” He glances out the window. “Ah, though perhaps ‘good afternoon’ is more accurate.”

She lets out a sigh, eyebrows furrowing with that same conflicting expression. “Hi, Arthur.”

There’s a stretch of silence, and for once it doesn’t feel entirely comfortable between them. Arthur’s not usually one that feels a need to bridge silences, but right now he feels like Frey is expecting him to say something. Still, for once Arthur can’t quite read the atmosphere— which he’s mostly blaming on his dazed senses— so he doesn’t know what to say.

He settles for the tried and true method of being polite.

“Thank you for coming to visit me. I hope I didn’t worry you too much.”

Frey’s eyes widen slightly, and then she lets out a breath. Now she looks more annoyed than anything, he thinks, and slightly sad. Part of Arthur is struck by how cute she looks, and the other part is lightly panicking at her distress, particularly at how it’s directed at _him._

“Of course you worried me, Arthur! You worried everyone— Vishnal ran to me panicked and scared half to death, saying you collapsed in your office so he and Dylas carried you to the clinic. And then Meg and Porco told me they’ve been begging you to take it easy, since apparently you’ve been feeling bad all week—”

Frey cuts herself off by letting out a huff. A _‘what do I even do with you,’_ expression is on her face, and Arthur’s not entirely sure what possesses him but he finds himself laughing fondly into his hand. The feeling makes him start to cough, but it passes quickly.

Frey puffs out her cheeks, impossibly adorable. “You have to take better care of yourself, you know.” 

At that Arthur does manage to feel sheepish, scratching his cheek and blushing, though he’s not sure it shows up through the fever warmth already on his skin. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to let it get this far.” 

“Knowing you, you just tried to work through it.”

Frey being entirely correct in her assumption, leaves Arthur with nothing to say. His lack of argument only makes her look more peeved.

 _So cute._

Finally Frey lets out one last breath, all of her energy seeming to go with it. She slumps forward in her chair and rests her elbows on her lap, so that she can lean slightly closer to where Arthur still sits in the clinic bed. She eyes him up and down like she still half-expects him to pull out a binder from somewhere and start working again, but when he doesn’t her smile turns genuinely fond and relieved.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Arthur.”

He doesn’t actually know what to do with this. With everything: the look on her face, the slope of her shoulders, having this much open and genuine concern directed at him from Frey, who somehow makes it all feel so much more special, though Arthur feels too disoriented to be able to understand why.

“I— thank you.” Arthur turns enough to look properly into Frey’s eyes, who seems to startle slightly at the sudden onslaught of his seriousness. He smiles, small and tired but genuine. “And I want you to know I genuinely _am_ sorry. I didn’t mean to worry anyone, but I’m sorry that I did.”

Her smile mirrors his. “I know you didn’t. Just— next time you feel under the weather, take care of yourself. Actually, even better, let one of us take care of you! Clorica makes a great chicken noodle soup, and she just showed me her recipe the other day, you know.”

“That sounds lovely.” 

Despite the ache in his muscles and the weight behind his eyelids, Arthur’s heart feels lighter than it has in a while. He’s not sure he’s ever had someone take care of him like this. It makes him feel…

No. Arthur is clearly dizzy and needs rest. He refuses to let his feverish delirium let him go down any kind of ridiculous path when he can’t think rationally.

Frey has started chatting about her week, and the way the special crops she had him order are turning out in her field. Arthur smiles and converses along, losing himself in the happy feeling that is afforded by Frey’s calming presence.

* * *

Arthur’s experiences before Selphia were, as he had told Frey that one time, that people were generally too awkward to ask him much about his soulmate once they found he had color vision but was alone.

Arthur’s experiences _after_ coming to Selphia are quite different.

Conversations about soulmates— of all kinds, whether they be speculation, gossip, reminiscence, anticipation or even dread— cropped up as often as leaves did on the trees. And as Frey’s valiant efforts led to more mysterious people awaking from monster form, and more people thus joined the population, conversations only flourished. 

What Arthur has put together is this:

There are some who speak fondly of soulmates, and the bonds between them: Nancy, Lin Fa, Porcoline. 

Many seem to want to pick it apart and study it, revelling in the story of others who have experience in the matter: Kiel, Amber, Margaret, Clorica, Frey, Vishnal.

Others seem to avoid it like the plague, or hell on earth: Leon, Doug, Dylas, Volkanon, Xiao Pai.

And quite a few will listen but never participate much in the conversation: Forte, Jones, Dolce, and Arthur himself. 

(Of course, not everyone fits into neat categories, and even those who do aren't always guaranteed to act the same way, but Arthur generally likes to try and expect the course of whatever conversation he’s getting into). 

It’s a testament to both Frey’s capability to keep a secret and Arthur’s ability to defer topics of conversations that no one knows the specifics of Arthur’s own ‘soulmate’ situation until a cheery spring evening, over one year after he came to this town. 

Margaret’s birthday sees the closing of the entire restaurant for the afternoon and evening, allowing everyone in town to filter in and out to enjoy food, listen to her play music, and participate in general festivities. Even Arthur spent the week prior to this finishing all of his work early so that he could make a regular appearance at her celebration. From the fond looks he receives all day from Dylas, Porcoline, and Meg herself, this was an act that hadn’t gone unnoticed.

When evening comes the celebration continues, though it’s whittled down to just the young adults of Selphia, crowded around a few pushed-together tables and chatting about anything and everything over open bottles of wine. Arthur is, as always, careful not to get drunk, but he doesn’t stop himself from drinking entirely. 

The same can’t be said for the others around him.

Dylas and Doug have gotten into some kind of inebriated wrestling contest that Leon and Xiao Pai seem to be taking bets on; Dolce, Forte, and Amber (who is cuddling into Frey), are watching the spectacle with expressions that range from amusement to worry; and Arthur is sitting a small distance away, in conversation with Meg, Clorica, Kiel, and Vishnal.

The latter three people sit across from him, leaning in to catch whatever he says.

Meg sits to his right, a happy smile on her face and a flattering blush on her cheeks as she takes another sip of wine. He’s not sure how much she’s had tonight, but by the way her words slur when she speaks as well as how she hasn’t let go of Arthur’s arm in the last fifteen minutes, he imagines a lot. 

Not that Arthur minds, in the slightest. Meg is practically a sister to him, to the point that he’s quite sure he’s closer to her than he ever got to either of his real siblings. The friendly affection is pleasant. On top of that, it’s her birthday, so he’s glad to see her celebrating.

“Ooh, ooh, that one!” Meg says, pointing to the wall clock hanging over the wall by the piano. 

“It’s black and white.”

“Oh, boo, so nothing new then.” Meg’s pout is quite sweet.

“What about… that plant?” Vishnal gestures at the potted plant to Arthur’s left.

“The pot is purple, the plant is green, the flowers are pink.”

As if he had made some great discovery, the table erupts into cheers. Arthur takes a polite sip of his drink— after this glass he’s going to stop. He can just feel the heat rise to his cheeks, which is an indicator that he’s had enough for the night. 

Arthur, being the only one at this table that has color sight, somehow got into a game where the other four would ask him to list the colors of whichever object they pointed out. 

“Ooh, ooh, I got one. What about…” Kiel taps a finger to his chin like he’s looking for something challenging. When his eyes land on the floor he grins. “The new rug that Porco got.”

Arthur smiles, catching on. “I’m afraid it would be faster for me to list the colors that it _isn’t.”_

This makes everyone at the table laugh— especially Meg, who manages to frustratedly groan at the same time. She lets go of Arthur’s arm to drop her head to the table. “I told him not to buy that! I can’t see the colors myself, mind you, but I could tell from the pattern it looked way too gaudy! But does anyone listen to Meg? _Noooo_ , of course not.”

They’re all either snickering or smiling at her rant.

“I think plenty of people listen to you,” Kiel says. 

“Aw, c’mere,” Meg says, reaching over the table to fuss at Kiel’s hair, who laughs and tries to bat her away. 

Arthur, and not at all for the first time this past year, is very much filled with fondness. For the people of Selphia, and for those specifically that he has found in the space of this restaurant. He’s not sure how anyone as kind as Porcoline even exists, but he’s grateful to the man anyway. He makes a mental note to try and find a way to show his appreciation soon.

Maybe Arthur will replace that rug for him.

Meg is drumming her fingers against the table when she sits back down, humming a melody that sounds perfectly pitched and on-tempo despite her drunken state. Arthur is drawn fully back to the conversation when Clorica’s calm, even tone pipes up, slightly more excited than she usually is.

“My turn. What color are my hair and eyes?”

Arthur can’t help but blink at her. “You don’t know?” It isn’t a question he’d normally ask, even if his voice and intentions are perfectly polite in their curiosity— and confusion— which just confirms for Arthur that making this glass of wine his last is a very smart decision indeed.

Clorica shakes her head. “My parents weren’t soulmates. No one I know has been. Well...”

Clorica doesn’t finish her sentence, but Vishnal picks it up without skipping a beat.

“Ah, of course, Mr. Volkanon never answers the question one way or another, so we genuinely can’t tell if he has color sight or not.”

“Really?” Kiel asks, eyes wide. 

“You can’t tell?” Meg adds.

Clorica nods along, the two butlers showing that near-paranormal level of telepathy that they have between each other. Honestly it’s a wonder they’re not each other’s soulmates, if platonically beyond anything else. Arthur has seen records of those existing, back when he had been actively researching the phenomenon of soulmates.

Kiel seems to be deep in thought, mumbling to himself to come up with a way to find out the truth behind Volkanon’s mystery.

Clorica glances back up to Arthur, and he knows the silent question in her expression.

“Your hair is purple,” he says. “A somewhat light purple. And your eyes…” He squints, and Clorica leans slightly forward so he can get a closer look. _Blue, blue,_ he thinks back to his own question, to how much he wanted to know. He thinks back to his mother pointing out that knowing the color won’t do him any good; he remembers how it _hadn’t_ done him any good, in the end. How his soulmate didn’t end up mattering. He thinks of his response as a child, anyway. _I just wanted to know._

He laughs lightly. “I can’t exactly tell in this lighting, but I believe they’re brown.”

Clorica hums out a response, and the tiny smile that drifts over her lips is sweet.

“Arthur—“ Kiel speaks up like he’s drawing himself out of deep interpretation. His gaze is so inquisitive that it makes Arthur vaguely feel like he’s being studied, but Kiel’s whole countenance is so friendly that Arthur still finds himself relaxed. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you meet your soulmate?” 

Arthur thinks of all the other times he’s politely deflected from this topic; this time though, with four pairs of curious eyes on him, all completely silent as the party goes on in the background, he finds that there’s no reason not to tell the truth.

For the first time in his life, Arthur has genuinely and truly loved living in a town. 

So he recounts the short tale of that night with the fish restaurant and the big crowd.

All four of them look shocked, which Arthur expected.

“So—“ Vishnal says, “you didn’t see them at all?”

“I’m afraid not. It was dark, and things were blurry without my glasses.”

Kiel’s brows are slightly furrowed. “Did they have any identifying features? Like something on their clothing?” 

“None that I could make out,” Arthur responds easily, hand playing with the stem of his empty wine glass. “They were swallowed by the crowd too quickly.”

“Hmmm. That’s a hard one.”

Clorica speaks up, with a delicate hand on her chin. “But that means you wouldn’t be able to recognize them again, even if you bumped into them.”

“And the capital is a very busy city, so it could have been almost anyone…” Vishnal adds. 

Arthur nods easily. “That is the case.”

There’s a brief silence, and then in the next moment Arthur feels Meg sling over on the chair next to him, with her head on his shoulder and again her two arms wrapped around the one of his that’s next to her.

“It’s just so sad though!” She says, her voice filled with a level of dramatic sorrow that can only be achieved by someone well and truly drunk. “They’re your soulmate!”

“I never knew them at all, so I don’t feel the loss all too keenly, to be honest.”

“But— But you two are supposed to be together! Arthur, what if you can’t find love? No, no, that’s okay, we’ll definitely find someone for you. Oh! Do you want me to set you up with someone? I know a lot of people, you know, and I think I could find some that you’d like. What’s your type?”

Arthur is spared from having to answer this by Kiel’s objection. “Don’t we all know the same people? Selphia’s pretty small.”

Meg turns from pouting up at Arthur to glaring at Kiel, though her gaze doesn’t look particularly focused. “I know _other_ people too!”

Arthur glances over at the rest of the restaurant— it seems the wrestling match ended, though he can’t tell who actually won. Both Dylas and Doug are panting on the ground side by side, glaring at the ceiling. 

The conversation goes on for a few more minutes while Vishnal, Kiel, and Clorica try to figure out what other people Meg knows, and Arthur decides to sit back and listen instead of participating— mostly hoping that in doing so the topic of setting him up (or deciphering his type) wouldn’t come up again. In the meantime, the party around them seems to wrap up as people say their goodbyes. 

“What I’m saying is,” Meg continues, half-way through a rant, “if you wanted to— oh, hi Forte!”

Forte walks over to their table, takes one look at Meg, and slings her arm around Meg to help her up off the chair.

“Your hair smells _nice_ ,” Meg slurs, leaning heavily on Forte’s shoulder and smiling happily up at her as if nothing has changed.

“I’ll walk her home,” Forte says with her usual matter-of-fact politeness, though she isn’t managing to hide her blush from anyone. If it’s from alcohol or something else can’t be said for certain, but Arthur has his guesses. 

“Aww okay!” The elf cheers. “Bye guys, thanks for an awesome birthday!”

There’s a following chorus of goodbyes as everyone else files out. Arthur steps back into the kitchen to put away a few things, and when he comes back out he’s surprised to note that Frey is there, cleaning some of the tables. She turns when she sees him, a flattering blush on her cheeks and a slightly tired look on her face, though her movements are steady and even. 

“Hi, Arthur.”

He blinks before finding his words. “Hello. I didn’t expect you to still be here.”

“Well, I didn’t want you to be left alone to clean everything.” Arthur opens his mouth, but before he even asks his question Frey already answers, “I saw an exhausted Dylas walk upstairs— I figured he was checked out for the night. Oh! And— come here.” She wiggles her finger to beckon him closer. 

Arthur steps closer to her until he’s hovering next to her, close enough for Frey to whisper conspiratorially in his ear, which certainly isn’t helping the warmth that’s already on his cheeks.

“I saw Doug go up with him,” Frey whispers, giggling into her hand after like a schoolgirl. 

Her mood is infectious, and Arthur can’t help the smile on his face. “I’ve never known you to be a gossip.” 

She shrugs, going back to cleaning the table and stacking some dishes. “I’m usually not.”

Frey certainly doesn’t seem drunk, but she does seem slightly tipsy. Honestly, Arthur thinks he might be too. With this in mind it’s with extra caution that he makes sure not to break anything, and the two of them make quick work of cleaning up. 

He still feels slightly light-headed when he hovers by the front door, his cheeks warm and his heart beating just a bit too quickly. Arthur concludes it must, in fact, be the wine from earlier, and not the way the silver-y blue light of the moon washes out Frey’s face to a soft glow. 

“Thank you very much for helping me clean, Frey. I genuinely appreciate it.” His voice sounds soft even to his own ears. 

“Of course,” Frey says, with that selfless smile of hers.

She glances up at the sky and Arthur does too.

“Ah— it’s later than I realized,” he says. “Would you like me to walk you home?”

“Oh—“ Frey looks more surprised than he had expected, but Arthur’s sure the blush on her cheeks must be from the alcohol. “I’d hate to make you walk all the way and back, though.” 

“It isn’t a long walk, and I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs. It’s your choice, of course.” 

She bites her lip and nods, the motion making her long pigtails— which look seafoam green under the night sky— sway against the pale slope of her shoulders. “Sure, then. Thanks.”

Arthur nods, voice calm even as his heart beat grows erratic. “Of course.”

The two of them fall into step beside each other, a comfortable silence between them. In this moment Arthur finds himself hyper-aware of Frey’s presence, in a way he never has been of someone before. His nerves won’t let him _not_ realize how close she currently is to him, so much so that he’d barely need to move to reach out and grab her hand, or the way if he looks over he could see the crown of her head, the silken-looking strands of her hair.

Arthur walks with an air of friendly casualness, but inside he’s yelling at himself to keep it together. This is harder when he isn’t entirely sober— it’s also not something that he is used to feeling, and he doesn’t know how to describe it.

Deciding that small talk is the best way to force his mind to stop its torturous deliberations, Arthur pipes up, breaking the silence in the breezy night air.

“Did you enjoy the party tonight?”

Frey looks up at him, eyes shining like her smile. “Absolutely. It did get pretty rowdy at some points, but it was very fun. And I’m glad no one got hurt.” Arthur lets out a hum in response, and Frey adds, “What about you? At the end there it almost looked like you were being interrogated.”

A surprised laugh bubbles out of Arthur’s lips, and he stifles the noise behind his hand. When he glances at her out of the corner of his eye, he can see Frey grin, as if she’s pleased to make him laugh. 

“It certainly felt like that, at certain parts. But overall it was a perfectly nice conversation.”

“Oh?” Frey links her arms behind her back and leans in closer to Arthur, looking slightly devious with a conspiratorial look in her eye, and the prince’s heart tries to rip itself out of his chest. “What were the interrogative parts?” 

“Ah.” He casts his eyes up to the starry sky above them. One could see so many more stars here than in the capital. He’s not sure why he finds himself so open. Something about Frey’s presence is disarming. “I’d imagine you get asked the same— questions about colors, soulmates. Er… my lovelife. All typically things I try to avoid, to be quite honest, but I suppose they’re sure to come up every now and again.”  
He glances back down at Frey when she makes a sympathetic noise. They’re in the castle plaza now, walking towards her front door. The wind picks up slightly, offering a cool relief through the thick fabric of Arthur’s cloak. He vaguely wonders if Frey is cold.

“Oh yeah, I definitely get asked the same. Actually, it feels like everyone else is more convinced my soulmate is going to come find me than I am at this point.”

Arthur can’t help the surprise that slips into his voice. “I didn’t know you had given up on that.” 

He watches Frey carefully as she shrugs, and he can’t help but note that the nonchalance in that gesture, in her tone, doesn't feel quite as genuine as her other emotions usually do. After years in court life Arthur is used to reading people, but Frey is usually so open to begin with. It’s something he admires about her.

“It’s been over a year,” she says, as they stop in front of her front door. She turns in place to look up at Arthur, and then casts her gaze to the side. Her cheeks are still dusted pink, but for some reason the resigned smile on her face hurts his heart. “If they haven’t found me now I’m not sure they will. Maybe we simply weren’t close— maybe our soulmate bond wasn’t anything special.”

“I think you’re special,” Arthur finds himself immediately interjecting, as if his mouth had decided to perform a coup on any rational thought. Frey’s eyes snap up to him, sparkling under the moon, and Arthur finds himself blushing as he amends, “I’m sure everyone here does. Actually, I’m certain of it. Your place in Selphia is special.”

Frey studies him, seemingly lost for words, and Arthur tries not to shake under her gaze. He’s never thought too highly of his soulmate, and that whole situation; meeting them and being able to see color didn’t do much for him, at least in the ways he had foolishly hoped it would as a child. But despite it all he has always been a romantic in some deep, deep corner of his heart, and he has come to fall in love with color. At this very moment, as the light of the moon continues to wash Frey in pale, watery colors, making her and her kind, brave eyes— her whole countenance— almost glitter like the depths of a lake, Arthur finds himself thankful that he met his soulmate, if only to be able to see Frey as radiant as she truly is in full color.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Frey says quietly, a small, infinitely genuine smile on her face.

“Of course,” Arthur murmurs. 

The wind picks up again, making Frey shiver. Before Arthur knows what he’s doing he’s shrugging off the long fabric of his coat, and draping it over her shoulders. Frey’s eyes widen to the size of saucers, and her blush deepens. Arthur can’t help but be slightly surprised himself— part of him wants to vow not to drink wine for a long, long time after this if two glasses makes him act without thinking first, but another part of him is growing in suspicion that this is isn’t due to the alcohol.

“Ah— well—” Arthur says, shifting into polite pleasantries to banish his errant thoughts as well as to cut off any need to explain why he gave Frey his coat on a breezy spring evening when she is quite literally about to go indoors. “Good night, Princess.” 

His vision becomes flooded with yellow, his hair suddenly whipped into his eyes.

Then suddenly Arthur’s eyes fall down to see Frey reaching up, dwarfed under the size of his cloak. For a moment time seems to freeze between them, her hand still behind his ear and their faces so close that Arthur can just make out freckles, light brown, scattered across her nose and cheeks, rosy pink.

That’s when Arthur belatedly feels the delicate, warm touch of a calloused hand that had tucked his hair back behind his ear. 

Arthur’s brain all but short circuits. For once not a single thought passes through his head, any coherent thought drowned out by the empty feeling in his chest that comes from how his heart has stopped beating entirely. Then, he thinks of a single word.

_Oh._

“Ah—! Um! Sorry, that was—” Frey stumbles back, pulling his cloak tighter around her shoulders and half-stuttering out, I saw your hair fly in front of your glasses and then, well I thought _‘he probably can’t see a thing right now’_ and then next thing I knew I was getting _way_ too close to you.” There’s a beat of silence as Arthur can only blink owlishly at her. “Um, well, anyway, thank you so much for walking me home. I’ll just be…” she points awkwardly at the door behind her.

Arthur’s manners kick in on autopilot. “Oh. Yes. Of course. Have a pleasant night.”

“Y-you too. Good night Arthur.”

“Good night, Frey.”

She nods once, then twice, then quickly goes into her room. The sound of the door closing is what snaps Arthur out of his reverie.

He can physically feel his body processing the events of the last few moments all at once, and his face turns so red so quickly that the prince has to throw an arm back against one of the walls— as his other hand moves to cover his face— to keep himself from getting too dizzy.

Suddenly, face burning, heart racing, and completely sober, Arthur is struck with the moment of pure and utter clarity from just a minute earlier.

_He’s in love with Frey._

All alone in the plaza late at night Arthur takes the moment to drop decorum and mumbles to himself, with feeling, _“Shit.”_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow!!! This took *way* longer than I expected but I kind of psyched myself out for the latter half of this story so the the writer's block kicked in *hard* Nevertheless, I finally finished the next chapter, so here it is!! A big thank you to Patt for keeping me motivated and for beta reading this whole fic so far. You are cooler than mop.

Margaret storms into his office from the front door, which lets him know that wherever she was before this moment she hadn’t been in the restaurant. Not that this is particularly important to the situation at hand— the most important thing is that Meg looks absolutely furious, to the point that her pale-blonde hair seems to shine with a righteous light.

She marches up to his desk and stops, crossing her hands over her chest and staring at him. Clearly she wants him to say something first, so Arthur looks up from the stacks upon stacks of work that he has buried himself under recently and says, “Hello, Meg. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yes,” she replies pointedly, “there is, actually.”

He sets down the quill he had been using. When Arthur doesn’t break the silence that stretches on, Meg lets out a frustrated noise and puts her hands on her hips. 

Ah. That means she’s definitely angry. 

“What have you been doing the past week and half?” she asks.

Arthur blinks at her like the answer should be obvious. Despite his confusion, his tone is its usual level of politeness. “Working?”  
“No— you’ve been busy even for you, we’ve all noticed that. But I mean besides that.”

“Besides that? I find I haven’t particularly done anything else.”

“Well—!” Meg says, cutting herself off as she throws her hands up in frustration. “That’s the point then! You’ve been working so much that you’ve totally been ignoring everything else again, haven’t you? Food, your health, your feelings.”

Ah. So they’re having this conversation. Arthur can’t help but sigh as he leans further back into his chair, a pain in his back clenching up after having held one position for so long. “I’ve made sure to eat and sleep as much as I need to. As for the last point— I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

Meg lets out a mildly frustrated noise. She sits down in one of the chairs across from his desk, and after a few moments of staring at him looks visibly troubled, her eyebrows furrowing upwards.

She asks in a quiet, concerned voice, “Arthur, what are you doing?” 

At his silence, Meg continues. “I just— I don’t get it! Why are you only making the two of you more miserable? 

This time when he blinks at her, it’s out of genuine confusion; Arthur has never been particularly good at dealing with open concern when it’s directed at him. “I… what do you mean?”

Meg shifts to pinch her temples with her fingers and let out a sigh. He feels like he’s about to be scolded by his tutor, or even his older sister— which actually makes sense. Meg _is_ older than him, isn’t she? Arthur tends to forget how young he actually is, in retrospect.

“You’ve been working basically non-stop for the past, like, week and a half right?” Her tone suggests that she’s already expecting the answer.

“More or less, yes.”

“And you’re going to tell me that you’re _not_ doing that on purpose to ignore Frey?” 

Ah. It all clicks in Arthur’s head— honestly he would have figured this out sooner but he has the suspicion that his mind is actively trying to forget that topic all together. He takes off his glasses with a sigh and cleans them with a cloth folded neatly on his desk. 

“And before you think anything,” Meg adds, “Frey didn’t say anything. Actually, she refuses to say anything at all to anyone, even to us girls, and it’s really frustrating— _you’re both so stubborn_ — but a few of us noticed that she’s seemed really down these last few days, and then after seeing how you totally brushed her off at breakfast this morning— after not eating anything, by the way—!”

It takes all of Arthur’s practice in decorum to keep him from wincing at the accusation, since it’s perfectly true.

“I figured _something_ had to be up with you guys,” Meg continues, “and I finally managed to get it out of her. Well— not the full _it,_ not even close, but at least the basics. She thinks she’s done something to make you mad at her. And, I mean, knowing you two, I really doubt that’s true, but she wouldn’t hear any of it.”

Arthur, unbidden, thinks of Frey— an act he’s been doing _often_ lately, even as he tries to bury it in work— shining, radiant Frey, with eyes like jewels and hair like spring, as selfless as she is both brave and kind, and how she’d do just about anything for the people of Selphia, how much she’s done just for Arthur specifically. And then, once again against his will, Arthur thinks of her: dejected, thinking that she’s genuinely done something to anger him, maybe even agonizing over trying to figure out what that is. Considering how silent Arthur knows he’s been, that could easily be the case.

It makes his heart clench painfully in a way that he tries and fails to ignore.

This is _why_ Arthur doesn’t want to have these talks, the ones that spring forth the kinds of emotions and thoughts that are difficult to manage— the ones that are difficult to reason away, especially when all reason tells him that no matter how kind someone is it’s unwise to put trust in them, to let them get further than the polite arm’s length he allots to everyone.

Arthur realizes that he hasn’t said anything. He also realizes that Meg is watching him— usually her blue eyes are so warm _,_ warm enough that Arthur almost thinks _these must be the kind of eyes Mother had meant,_ but at the moment they’re sharp, studying him. There is still that undeniable softness to her eyes, though, that fondness that Arthur learned quickly is the kind she regards her friends— _family—_ with, and he realizes now that _no, these are the eyes he_ hoped _Mother had meant._

Ah. Yes, it has definitely been too long since Arthur has said anything. Meg thankfully looks patient, though.

“Hurting Frey was never my intention. But it’s…” he can’t help but pinch his temples and sigh, before continuing, “a complicated situation.”

Meg leans forward, reaching her hand out to reach the one of his that’s sitting on his desk. She gives his fingers a squeeze, fond blue eyes shining through with care and concern. “That’s why I’m here for you, Arthur. And for Frey. We all are.”

Meg seems to read the unspoken question in his eyes, the one Arthur’s held his tongue from asking for years:

_Why?_

As much as he's wanted to avoid thinking about all of this, he can't seem to stop himself from getting sucked in by the gentle force of her caring gaze. For a moment it feels like she has all the answers bottled up in that sea of blue, and, well. 

Arthur always has been too curious.

So he hangs on to every syllable when she says,

“Because we’re family.”

* * *

It’s a surprisingly quiet night at the restaurant. Meg has gone home, Porcoline is upstairs, and Dylas is on what he absolutely refused to admit was a date. That leaves Arthur downstairs, peacefully mopping the last of the restaurant floor after having convinced the other three to leave this to him, just for tonight. 

As he watches he watches the mop head glide across the tile, enjoying how the low yellow glow of the restaurant’s half-lighting glistens off of the freshly-wet floor, Arthur is struck with a sense of deja vu: hasn’t he been in a situation not too far off from this before? 

Ah, yes. The only thing missing is— 

As if reading his very thoughts, Arthur hears a tentative knock on the restaurant’s front door before a set of green twintails come sliding in.

“Excuse me? Porco, I know it’s after hours but I’ve got your— oh. Hi, Arthur.”

Ah. Arthur feels nervous— he absolutely knows why, and yet he still doesn’t expect it. He supposes that he became so used to feeling comfortable around her presence that this feeling is new to him, now.

How strange, when he’s grown up his whole life learning to keep people at a distance, not trusting or becoming too comfortable around anyone. _People are not to be trusted._ Arthur’s found himself wondering more and more lately if that’s true.

“Good evening, Frey,” he says with a nod of his head, pausing his mopping to face her. Her responding smile is courteous but undoubtedly looks wary. To think, what he’s done to make Frey look so nervous. When she doesn’t say anything, he asks, “You said you were… looking for Porcoline?”

“Oh—! Yes. He lent me this special baking mold earlier today and I was just, uh,” she waves the pan in her other hand, stepping fully into the restaurant. “Coming back to, um, return it. I know it’s late but I didn’t want to forget…”

The lighting from outside— pouring in from where the door is still half-open— clashes with the lighting inside, making half of Frey’s hair look almost yellow-ish and the other a watery silver. It reminds Arthur that even with over a decade’s experience with color vision there are always shades left to learn, to experience.

“If you’d like to leave it on the counter, I’m sure he will see it there. I can also let him know when I see him.”

“Okay, sure. Thank you.” 

“Oh, but—” Arthur blinks as a realization hits him, holding out his palm to catch her attention. Frey’s only taken one step from the front of the restaurant when she turns to look at him questioningly. “I don’t think that part has dried up yet,” the blonde explains, vaguely moving around the mop in his other hand to make a point. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, the safest way would probably be to go around the wall shared with my office.”

“Oh, thank you!” Frey’s smile is still small but looks more genuine, and she starts making her way around the outer edge of the room. Arthur goes back to mopping the last section he has, but suddenly finds concentrating more difficult. He’s acutely aware of her presence now, even more than he normally has been before, the weight of his recent realization pressing onto his chest.

When Frey has made her way to the kitchen counter and set her tray down, Arthur glances over to see her scribbling a brief note, using a piece of paper from the small notebook Dylas usually uses to keep track of orders on busy days. 

He goes back to cleaning. After a minute Frey seems to finish, because Arthur can feel her eyes on him.

When he looks up to meet her gaze she surprises him by letting out a soft, heart-rending giggle. “You know,” she says conspiratorially, “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a prince mopping before.”

Arthur can’t help but study her expression, even from this distance; her gaze is light, almost teasing, but he can see the worriedness behind it, as if she’s tentatively reaching out in this space between them— the one that Arthur put up with his cold shoulder the last week or two— as brave as she always has been.

He smiles in response, just slightly, and he can see the ways her eyes seem to latch on to the sight. 

“You still haven’t,” he responds, just as teasing. “Technically, I’m not Selphia’s prince.”

“Ah, but you’re _a_ prince.”

He can’t help the wry feeling that washes over his heart at the reminder of that title he’s always hated. And yet somehow, when Frey says it, it feels different.

“I suppose that’s true.” Arthur can feel the smile that’s still quirked on his lips. 

Frey loops her hands behind her back, rocking slightly back on her heels in what he recognizes as one of her nervous habits, but she hasn’t moved to leave the restaurant yet. That has to mean something, right? Arthur thinks of Frey, her shining bravery and equally shining smile, and musters up the courage he has to be honest.

“If you don’t mind waiting just a minute more, I can walk you home. If you want, that is.” Now the deja vu hits Arthur even harder, but he continues anyway, looking earnestly at Frey. “Actually I have something I’d like to tell you, but it can wait for a time that you’re not busy.”

“Oh.” Frey’s eyes are wide as she blinks at him. It seems like she’s about to take a hurried step towards him, but then stops half-way when she realizes the floor is still wet. “Sure, I don’t mind waiting, and I’m not busy. Actually, I have something too, something I’ve wanted to show you, but—”

She trails off, and Arthur doesn’t need to hear her say them to know the words: he’s been busy. He grimaces, just slightly, already feeling all of the apologetic guilt he’s been ignoring as much as he could the past week and a half.

“Of course, I’d love to see it.” His curiosity was very much piqued, but he couldn’t think on that too long before Frey was giggling again, making Arthur’s eyes shoot up to take in the sight. Her hand is delicately in front of her mouth, her shoulders shaking with soft mirth. She looks giddy, and light, and breathtaking.

“Haven’t we been here before? You cleaning the restaurant and then walking me home.”

Ah. Arthur smiles, warmly, and goes back to cleaning the last part of the floor left. “Yes, it seems we have. One more time and we might make this into a habit.”

Frey giggles again, one of the few noises distracting enough that Arthur doesn’t even focus on the colors of the lights, and the floor tiles, but rather the sound of her presence and the feeling in his chest. 

* * *

“What is it you wanted to show me?”

He glances down as Frey grabs his wrist, pulling him towards the direction of her field rather than the usual route through Melody Street. He thinks they’re going that way, at least— to be honest Arthur finds it difficult to concentrate on any of their surroundings when he can feel Frey’s hand, small and calloused and impossibly  _ warm.  _ It’s only the loss of that contact that has him looking up again, realizing that they have, in fact, stopped in her field, Frey having let go to take a few steps towards it.

She’s crouched by one plot of her strawberry plants, muttering annoyedly to herself as she quickly yanks a few weeds out of the ground that have sprung up between her fruits and vegetables. When she’s done she stands up again quickly, brushing her hands together to get rid of any dirt. 

Arthur takes the chance to step closer, glancing out at the wide array of crops, and then at Frey. She smiles, looking slightly nervous, and then beckons shyly at her field.

“I— ah— well, I’m realizing right now this is probably far from the most interesting thing, but. Um, since it’s the end of the season my crops are in full bloom right before I pick them, and I realized that the colors looked really, er, bright? There’s just so many of them. And then, I thought about your color vision, and the conversations we’ve had about that, and I figured you might like how the farm looks right now. Although I’m realizing now it might look better when not in the dark…”

At Arthur’s stunned silence her cheeks grow a darker shade of red— infinitely flattering— and she lets out a strained laugh. “Wow! Sorry. This really is dorky, isn’t it? I think Venti’s had me spending too much time around the fields lately, we don’t have to stay here.”

“No, it’s—” Ah. Arthur’s not used to finding himself at a loss for words. He glances out at the neat rows of bountiful crops again and decides that simple honesty is the best choice. “The field looks beautiful. It’s strange how I have seen all of these fruits and vegetables individually, and yet when they’re all together like this their colors look so much more…”

“Vibrant?”

“Yes, exactly.” The smile on Arthur’s lips is almost more of a relieved sigh than anything else, Frey picking the exact word he had been aiming for reminding him that she always seems to see straight through him. “It’s beautiful,” he adds. “Thank you for showing me.” 

She nods happily. “If you come in the morning you can see them in the daylight before I pick them. Ah— i-if you want to, that is. I _do_ tend to wake up pretty early.”  
_She’s so cute._ Arthur’s fighting a losing battle against the ever-growing smile on his lips, all the more insistent after nearly two weeks of not having been around her. How had he managed to do that, when right now it feels like separating from her would be like separating the air from his lungs?

“What?” Frey pouts after a moment too long of his staring.

“My apologies,” he says fondly, though he doesn’t feel the slightest bit sorry. “I just couldn’t help but note that your cheeks put the red of even those strawberries to shame.”

“Wh— I—  _ geez,  _ don’t just say something out of nowhere like that,” Frey grumbles, staring pointedly at her shoe to kick a small rock away from her crops.

_ “Ahahaha.”  _ As he laughs loudly and genuinely against his hand, the sound carrying in the breeze, Arthur feels lighter than he has in a while.

A few minutes pass in serene silence like that. The air is thick and warm around them, reminding them of the days of summer about to come. 

After glaring mildly at a bug crawling over one of her cucumbers, Frey finally stops averting her gaze. “What is it you wanted to tell me?”

Ah, right. Earlier-this-evening-Arthur had ensured that Present-Arthur couldn’t lose his nerve and excuse himself out of this one by already stating his purpose early on. Despite the nervousness fluttering in chest Arthur was determined to do this, to do right by Frey. She deserves an apology, at the very least.

He takes a breath and gathers his nerves, thinking of how brave Frey is at any given moment. He thinks that just by having her kind, inquisitive gaze on him he can feel some of that bravery rubbing off on him.

“Well, first, I wanted to apologize. I’ve been very rude to you this past week and a half, and you don’t deserve that. While I won’t… lie, and say that ignoring you wasn’t on purpose, I will say that hurting you wasn’t my intention, and it’s not something I ever want to do again if I can help it.”

“Oh.” Frey blinks a few times, studying his face. She looks empathetic, but there’s still a furrowed tilt to her brow. “I want to say I forgive you. And I’m sure I will. I was just so confused because I felt like it… happened out of nowhere. I was trying to think of what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Arthur supplies probably far too quickly, because Frey’s momentarily wide-eyed look melts into a fit of soft laughter. The sound is infectious, making Arthur’s cheeks warm.  _ Red.  _ Maybe this is a red he can get used to. “It was very much on me.” 

Frey’s laughter dies down and she looks at him, waiting for him to explain further.

Arthur all but feels his heart catch in his throat, thundering out a dizzying rhythm, and he wonders if he’s as nervous as the first time he made a business deal.

He wills the words to come out, pictures them sitting on a page already written, already perfectly composed, and then he pictures his hand tracing over every letter, sounding out the words, willing them to come out without imperfection.

“I. Well, nearly two weeks ago, the night that I walked you home from Meg’s birthday dinner, I came to the realization that the feelings I have for you run much deeper than I realized.”

Frey’s eyes go as wide as saucers, looking nearly grey in the moonlight. 

Though he’s distantly aware of the fact that his hands have started shaking, Arthur manages to continue in a relatively calm voice. “When I was a child, it took nearly a month for the reality to set in that I had met, and missed, my soulmate. Before that point I had spent nearly all of my life waiting to meet them for… well, a variety of reasons that are too complicated to go into at the moment. But after realizing that I would never know who they truly were, I had decided not to spend any more energy on love or dating. That had lasted for quite some time. And then,” Arthur’s voice goes soft as he takes a breath, and he can see it in Frey’s eyes that she’s straining to catch every word, every sound. “Then I met you.”

“Arthur,” Frey says, and he can see the gears working in her mind, trying to put all the pieces together. “But then why…?”

“Did I ignore you?” He offers. “Well. At first the realization… Well, to be honest, it terrified me. I have never felt this way before, for anyone. And I have spent my whole life not able to trust people— choosing not to trust people. And then there is, of course, the fact that neither of us know who our soulmates are. That one of them could appear at any moment, and where would that leave us? The fact that I see the world in color was an inescapable, constant reminder of that worry.”

Frey has no response for this, and Arthur finds himself chuckling, rather self-deprecatingly. “Yes, well, though I can see now it wasn’t the correct course of action at all, I thought it best to put some distance between us. That maybe if it wasn’t too late we could both avoid all of this unscathed. But I see now I was only trying to protect my own insecurities by denying the truth. And that truth is…”

He wonders if these things are all true or if his mind is simply conjuring up the cliches, but he thinks that Frey has never looked more beautiful than she does in this moment— not because of the moonlight washing her skin, catching in her eyelashes, or the bright, soft expression on her face, or even the strong yet delicate slope of her shoulders, but because every single day that Arthur sees her Frey is more and more beautiful than the last, in every single way. Intelligent, kind, strong, funny.

He wonders if he can put all of this into words, like Frey deserves, or even any of it at all. 

He’s not sure he can. At least not right now. 

And so he looks into her eyes, and hopes with all of his heart that the all of the conviction and earnesty he feels comes across when he says:

“That I am in love with you, Frey. Deeply and irrevocably.” 

Her lips move silently. Arthur’s unsure if it’s the hot night air of an oncoming summer or if it’s his scarlet cheeks but he feels like he’s burning from the inside out.

“I know that neither of us know our soulmates,” he finds himself continuing, the sheepishness creeping into his tone, into his shy smile, “and I know that might cause a problem later down the road. But I also know that beyond anything else I can trust in my feelings for you. And I know that I want to try trusting in your feelings for me, whatever those may be. So please, let me hear your answer, and I will do my best to believe you.”

Standing there in the field looking down at Frey, Arthur is struck with the revelation that all of the expensive, rare, finely-crafted jewels he’s seen adorning royalty were absolutely nothing in comparison to the way Frey’s tears catch in the moonlight, glittering as they pool around her lashes. And nothing he has ever seen— no color, no sight, no sky or ocean— is as beautiful as the smile that stretches on her lips, hopeful and tremulous and impossibly  _ fond.  _

“You’re so ridiculous,” she says, finally, letting out a watery laugh and shaking her head like she can’t believe it. “Of course I love you, Arthur. I can’t imagine loving anyone as much as I love you, soulmate or not, because I just keep falling more and more for you every day.”

He finds that he can barely fill his air with lungs, even less so speak, and so all Arthur can manage is to let out a breath.

Vaguely he wonders if the wet sensation on his cheeks are tears that mirror Frey’s, as she continues to say, “I know that things are complicated. And honestly, not having my memories bothers me. But… I also know that I’m trying to focus on the here and now, and right now I also want to trust in my feelings for you. And…” She laughs, also a bit self-deprecatingly, making Arthur wonder if they truly are two birds of a feather after all, “I can’t help but feel like I’m grateful that I at least met my soulmate at some point, only because it means I get to see more of you. Like, the blonde of your hair, or the silver of your glasses.”

Suddenly Arthur finds himself speechless, short of breath (even more so than before, he’s going through a lot), struck with the revelation that Frey might actually feel very similarly to how he does, might even think some of the same things, and maybe all of this isn’t so foreign and nebulous, and maybe they can walk into this together and figure it all out. Arthur realizes, maybe far too late or maybe just in time anyway, that he doesn’t have to do this alone.

That he doesn’t want to.

He takes a step closer, and then another, until he’s standing right in front of Frey; without him being able to think much at all he raises a hand to cup her cheek, to delicately push away the mint strands of her hair, to feel the soft skin of her pink cheeks under his thumb.

“Say it again, please,” he murmurs.

Frey smiles as radiant as ever, knowing exactly what Arthur means because of course she does. “I love you, Arthur.”

He wonders if his heart is actually in his chest at all at this point, or if it had fallen out somewhere in the last few minutes, or if maybe he hasn’t had it at all for quite some time, because in this moment he knows that it is absolutely, undeniably Frey’s.

“I love you, Frey. Will you date me?”

She nods, looping her arms around his neck to pull him closer to her, so that he can’t mistake or misconstrue the shape of her lips as she says “Yes. Yes. Of course.”

He pulls Frey into a hug, burying his nose against the crown of her head, and promising to himself to stay by her side, for as long as she wants him. Her grip is warm and strong and tender around his neck, pulling him closer to her still. When they pull apart it only lasts for a few seconds before they’re coming together again, their lips joining in a cautious, reverent kiss. Arthur isn’t sure who moved first, and he isn’t sure it matters, but when he closes his eyes and focuses on the feelings of Frey’s lips he thinks maybe the black behind his eyelids is a nice color too. 


End file.
